


coney island

by stonecoldhedwig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M, Sex, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 21:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: Rabastan and Narcissa have a meeting in the summerhouse at Lestrange Hall.
Relationships: Rabastan Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5
Collections: folklore evermore





	coney island

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Houseofmalfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofmalfoy/gifts).



> Happy happy happy birthday to my dear friend Houseofmalfoy! 
> 
> SORRY THIS IS LATE. I am so glad for your friendship and for you, my dear, and I hope you enjoy this! Here is to a better year than the last, and all good things coming to you because you deserve them so very much. I love you, friend 🥰

_Do you miss the rogue_  
_Who coaxed you into paradise and left you there?_  
_Will you forgive my soul_  
_When you're too wise to trust me and too old to care?_

  
The light dances an arabesque upon the lake. Rabastan would usually call this hour silver, or violet—cool and temperate, a gentle mist settling like dew upon skin. He would usually look out the window of Lestrange Hall over the lake, the sunrise reflecting on the water, and call it a moment of pause before the rest of the house awakes and the realities of daily life resumes. 

Today, though, this hour is red, aflame, alive. There are no cool tones in the way his body feels like it will spontaneously combust, in the way his skin feels like it has been burned with oil, because Narcissa Malfoy is moving beneath Rabastan with a look that might create of him charcoal. That look is like lightning. 

He and Narcissa are holed up in the summerhouse down at the lake front. It’s just after New Year—but what are years, when you’re in the middle of a war? The only thing that marks the passing of time is the rising and setting of the sun, not numbers on a calendar or dates in a book. Rabastan can’t remember how many weeks it's been since 1979 slipped into 1980. All he knows is that the woman looking up at him is carrying his child in her belly and his name on her lips. 

Rabastan shifts his hips and he watches the effect the movement has. Narcissa arches her back, a wave of pleasure crashing across her face, and he wants to capture that moment. He wants to bottle the last vestiges of Narcissa’s scent against her neck; he wants to document the whisper of his name on her lips and the way she looks at him, fully and wholly alive. They’ve known each other for so long now—loved each other for so long—and still it’s like the first time when she whispers _Bastan_ into the sweat-damp hair at his temples. It’s like being branded, the way she drags her fingernails down his unmarked back and leaves her angry, bright-red calling card of welts against his skin. 

The only person who marks Rabastan’s skin is Narcissa. Other than the Dark Lord, of course, whose mark is against the soft flesh of Bastan’s inner forearm. When he and Narcissa are together, he casts a glamour charm over the Dark Mark—she hates it, hates the way it changes colour with Bastan’s moods, and the way it glows brighter and brighter with his ardour for her. Narcissa wants it gone. The best thing Bastan can do is cover it with a charm and hope that he can distract her enough so that she ignores the way the Dark Mark creeps back onto his skin like ink bleeding through a page. 

“ _Bastan_ ,” Narcissa whispers in delight. 

Her husband is away. As is always the way with these things, Rabastan doesn’t know when he’ll be back. He tries hard not to think about it—tries hard not to name him, tries not to make a character of the man who took Narcissa Black from him. _Lucius._ The word slips from Bastan’s tongue like a snake slips from a hole, waiting and angry. The smirk on Rabastan’s lips is not only for the fact that he is bedding Lucius Malfoy’s wife; it is because the soft swell of Narcissa’s stomach is Rabastan’s doing. 

Their child is the result of a passionate night in a summerhouse so similar to the one they’re in now. Their child—Rabastan thinks of him as a boy, although he won’t mention it to Narcissa—is the result of a dinner party at Malfoy Manor that turned into the kind of orgiastic party that purebloods are famed for. One thing, as they say, led to another. Now, Narcissa is pregnant and Lucius thinks the child is his, and Rabastan can barely see for the white rage. 

“Bastan,” Cissa whispers again, and this time, she wants a response. “Tell me I’m yours.” 

Rabastan acquiesces. “You’re mine,” he grunts, catching the sharp angle of her jaw between his lips and pulling a bright red bloom from the skin with his teeth. “You’re mine, my darling, you’re mine.” 

“I’m yours.” The words that Narcissa gives to him are like an offering. They are left upon the altar of whatever they are building in this flaming, red hour before the expanse of the dawn. Bastan wants their communion blessed, because he thinks that there is nothing holy like the feeling of Narcissa Black beneath him. _She_ is holy. She’s sacred, sacrosanct, worth prostrating himself before like a priest bows before the Eucharist. 

Bastan wants to hear those words over, and over, and over again—he wants them to be the melody to his life. Nothing comes close to the way those two words sound when it’s Narcissa shaping them. They are a promise. Rabastan can feel them being carved into the stone of his heart, can tell that those words will be the melody behind every action he takes. 

“I love you,” cries Bastan, as the pleasure of it all is too much too take. He presses his forehead against hers and sinks into the way his orgasm envelops him, covers him in the moment that they’re sharing. It is him and Narcissa, the two of them united and against the world, the two of them knotted together and unbreakable. 

“Tell me again,” Narcissa commands, and Bastan doesn’t notice the fact that she doesn’t say it back—she doesn’t tell him she loves him.

“I love you.”

Many years later, Rabastan will wonder from his cell in Azkaban if she remembers. He will wonder if she recalls him as the man who took her to the heights of ecstasy and left her there. He will wonder if the way their bodies coursed together meant anything—he will wonder if he meant anything. He could not offer Narcissa a house or status. He could only offer himself—broken and marred by that mark on his arm and the death sentence it brings. Rabastan will either die in the war as a victor; or he will die afterwards, a coward. 

At that moment in the summerhouse, Rabastan does not understand the way that he will disappoint Narcissa—he doesn’t know that one day, he will all-but-murder people in cold blood, and he will have to pay the price for it. He doesn’t know that he and Narcissa are living in finite days; there is an end point to their halcyon. They will bend in the winds of war as they have always done—only this time, they will break. 

In that minute, though, Rabastan repeats himself. This time, he is hopeful that she will return the favour. “I love you.” 

“Good,” Narcissa whispers in reply. “Good.” 


End file.
